Chapter 37
TRANSCRIPT: phone call [with personal notes added by agent]
AGENT: “CAROLINE BABULEWICZ” [pseudonym for this call: MEGAN GREER] to Sherry Quinn, Milford, Utah
(One ring. Two rings. Then a woman’s voice.)
QUINN: Hello.
(I picture her at her easel wearing a stained smock. But the voice is classy, elegant. The minute she picks up, I press start on my tape recorder.)
AGENT: Sherry, my name is Megan Greer. I’m calling about your ex-husband, Ben Harrison.
QUINN: Is he dead?
AGENT: Uh, no.
QUINN: Oh.
AGENT: You sound sad.
QUINN: Well… disappointed.
AGENT: Sorry. I hate to be the bearer of bad news.
QUINN: (Laughs.) Don’t tell me he gave my name as a reference for anything. (More laughter.)
AGENT: No. I’m talking to people who know him for an article I’m writing for the Lower Hudson News.
QUINN: What’s it about? Great assholes of the world?
AGENT: The paper wants to encourage people to shop locally. Ben’s gallery is one of the shops we’re covering.
QUINN: You mean he hasn’t run that gallery into the ground yet?
AGENT: Why do you say that?
QUINN: Hold on for a second. I need to cut more honeysuckle.
(She needs to do what? I hear a door slam. Did she leave? Another door slam. She’s back.)
QUINN: Sorry. Just brewing myself some tea.
AGENT: Oh. You were saying that you’re surprised the gallery is still around?
QUINN: (Pause.) What did you say your name was?
AGENT: Megan Greer. And I’m writing—
QUINN: I remember that part. Have you talked to Ben himself?
AGENT: Not yet. First I’m talking to people who know him.
QUINN: So you’ve probably heard Ben is a mean, self-serving son of a bitch.
AGENT: Yes. And that those are his good points.
QUINN: (More laughter.) Well, I’m not sure how much I can add. We haven’t talked in quite a while. No idea what he’s up to now.
AGENT: What about when you knew him? (Long pause. So I decide to add…) This is all confidential, by the way. I won’t use your name.
QUINN: Well, anyone who knows Ben knows he’s a hothead. Did I say hothead? Make that shithead. Determined to open his own business but totally unsuited for the corporate world. Eventually settled on a high-end art gallery and took all the money we had, about eight hundred dollars, out of the bank.
AGENT: But that’s not enough to start a gallery. Where do you think he got the rest of the money?
QUINN: No idea.
AGENT: Really?
QUINN: Well, he knew a lot of… let’s call them friends. Maybe they helped.
AGENT: Who were these friends?
QUINN: (Another pause.) Not my kind of people. Can we just leave it at that?
AGENT: Okay. But he seems to be doing well.
QUINN: For a guy who knows nothing about art? Yeah. But so much of the art world is smoke and mirrors.
AGENT: How so?
QUINN: You tell people about an up-and-coming artist, how they must buy his work now because it’s bound to appreciate over time. Tell that to enough rich people, and it comes true.
AGENT: Always?
QUINN: No. But Ben knows how to turn on the charm. His own mother used to say Ben could charm the glue off stamps.
AGENT: And he’s been successful.
QUINN: Yeah. A lot of shitheads are. (More laughter.) My daughter is okay dealing with him—Hailey can give as good as she gets. But I feel bad for his wife. Met her once. Nice lady. For her sake, I hope he’s changed.
AGENT: Do you think he has?
QUINN: No. Ben is hungry for money and power. Whatever he gets, it’s never enough. Me, I’m a lowly artist who makes a living doing what I love. Two different worlds, huh?
AGENT: I get it.
QUINN: I used to tell people Ben and I were quite happy for twenty-three years. And then we met! (More laughter.)
AGENT: Well, thanks for your time.
QUINN: You’re welcome. Bye, now.
(END OF TAPE)